


Merry Christmas John

by neverending_moomin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cheesey Fluff, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Gifts, I Don't Even Know, Thoughtful Sherlock I guess, You've been warned, christmas day, it's really not good, present exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverending_moomin/pseuds/neverending_moomin
Summary: Christmas eve at a crime scene and Sherlock can't help but notice one rather annoying detail - John Watson has bought him a present. Drat.It's cheesy and totally crap fluff, but it's Christmas so who cares : )





	Merry Christmas John

Sherlock sighed as his gaze was dragged away from the rather interesting corpse in front of him to a stocky blond standing not too far away with a creased brow and an air of restlessness if not impatience. The detective doubted John's mood was evident to anyone but him which gave him an odd sense of pride - being able to read the man so well - but, unfortunately that also meant there was no one else to decipher Johns cryptic body language, and emotion was not Sherlock's forte. The back of his mind was still running through case details and noting facts about the body (soles of shoes wet but tops dry, signs of muscle fatigue) but he redirected the core awareness to his flatmate, and puzzling out his issues. John hunched his shoulders slightly against the winter breeze, clapping his hands together briskly in an attempt to ward off the unusual cold spell that had settled upon London this Christmas. Sherlock's eyes flickered to Lestrade who was irritably barking orders at constables and shooting Sherlock looks to hurry him up - conclusion Lestrade was in a rush to be somewhere else. Smudge of lipstick on his coat collar, new aftershave, and a sprig of mistletoe snagged on his coat - Christmas. Sherlock frowned, swinging his gaze across the other yarders, all of them anxious to be home to loved ones for Christmas. John wasn't going to see his family on Christmas, his parents had decided to take a cruise (or so the postcard said) and Harriet had made her unwelcome appearance two days ago, still slightly wobbly from drinking the night before. Mrs. Hudson was at her sisters, and Molly Hooper was with her folks outside of London, which meant there was no one John could possibly be anxious to spend time with for Christmas. Oh! Discolouration around the victim's stomach opened more possible lines of inquiry, and whittled down his theories. But he was getting distracted, John. John was.... Unless John was anxious to spend tine with him, and, oh no, wringing of the hands and furtive glances at Sherlock, drat. John had bought him a present. Sherlock stood up so hurriedly that John gave him a worried look, but he was already a million miles away plotting and planning, calculating what favours he'd have to call in this late in the game. Double drat, he'd owe Mycroft.

"Lestrade, 4 possible theories I need to run tests to eliminate, for now I'm done here. Oh," he turned back slightly. "Bicycle's, Lestrade, they wanted bicycles not books." He thought his meaning was quite clear, but Lestrade just looked confused so he added over his shoulder, "your children." And marched off of the crime scene and out into the bustle of London. John caught him up four paces from the crime scene tape, with a breathy laugh.

"You sod, you're not supposed to tell him that after he's bought the things, it's the sort of thing you might mention, I don't know, three weeks ago." He laughed good naturedly again with a shake of his head. Sherlock just frowned, it was irrelevant data which had only just come together today to give him that information, there wasn't anyway for him to have know previously. Regardless Sherlock raised his arm for a cab. "So, Bart's next?" John asked, concealing a yawn.

"What? Hmmm no, Baker Street, I can run the tests there, plus Molly's away, no one to scurry around at my bidding and make coffee." He said with a grin, a fruitless attempt at humour. John did not look amused. Perhaps he should stick to being a 'narcissistic snob' as labelled by Justin Cranston in Year six (Sherlock had been so surprised that Justin new the word 'narcissistic' he'd had no retort, and as such wasn't beaten to a pulp after that occasion, and sustained only minor bruising, unlike most of his childhood.) He sighed, dragging himself out of the memory. "I was thinking Chinese?"

John looked at him incredulous. "Okay, but you're paying!"

Sherlock merely grunted his understanding, lost to his mind palace once more.

*  *  *  *  *

Science detritus littered the kitchen table but John put the take away bag on top, and fetched a plate down for himself. Sherlock frowned at it, and got his own down, not noticing the look of shock that overtook John's face.

"Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"

"Hmmm, what? Oh, yes quite John, I haven't eaten in five days, flatmate agreement says no more then four." Sherlock replied absently. Not wanting to contest anymore, John dished out the food, nothing better than Chinese take away for Christmas eve dinner.

They ate in companionable silence, plates balanced on their laps on the living room with only the chink of cutlery invading the quiet. With the last of the food eaten, Sherlock rose, taking their plates out to the kitchen with him. John yawned.

"I'm going to stick the telly on for a bit if that's okay." He called. As expected he got no response, so settled down to watch some crappy Christmas tv before bed anyway.

A gunshot was what woke him, several hours later, he switched off the TV (the source of the noise) noted he was covered in a blanket which he hadn't been when he'd fallen asleep - he checked the time, Christ 1 am - 3 hours ago, and padded up to bed, calling goodnight to his flatmate on his way. The kitchen light was still on, indicating Sherlock's presence, but the lack of response didn't faze John, likely Sherlock was too absorbed in whatever he was doing to even hear John's well wishes.

That wasn't however the case. Once Sherlock had successfully seen John asleep on the sofa - full and sleepy it had been only a short while before the man had dozed off - he'd donned his Belstaff and exited into the stillness of Christmas eve night, which given it was London wasn't all that still or quiet. His gift giving skills were rusty, and given the time limit and date he had (everywhere seemed to be closed at 11:30 on Christmas eve) finding the perfect present for John was going to be tricky. By 2am Sherlock was certain, and given he was at that point breaking into a warehouse in Surrey that was probably for the best. He'd already hacked their main database, and his gift was in there, unfortunately, no one else was, which was why he was now committing a b&e - the perks of having an older brother running the government, and half the detectives of the met police owing you a favour, Sherlock was unlikely to even see handcuffs for this offense. The lock gave a satisfactory clunk, and Sherlock stepped into the dimly light warehouse, where row upon row of racking greeted him, and reminded him that he still had to find the blasted object yet. With a sigh the genius analysed the layout, and started working his way around - he was looking for 46H, shelf 14, it could take a little while for even him.

Two  hours later Sherlock exited the warehouse complex as stealthily as he'd entered, gift wrapped neatly and addressed to John in Sherlock's cursive writing. With a satisfied yawn the detective made his way home. He could now focus on the case, and not his flatmate, however once he'd crossed the threshold he realised all he wanted to do was sleep, which is how Sherlock Holmes came to be going to bed at 5am Christmas morning and not working.

*  *  *  *  *

The morning dawned fresh and clear, with John padding down the stairs a little before 9:00.

"Morning Sherlock." He said automatically as he reached for the kettle, only to frown and realise the detective wasn't where he'd left him last night. Worry and anger pooled in his stomach at the thought of Sherlock being kidnapped or simply running off on the case without John. It was pleasantly, although surprisingly tempered when Sherlock exited his bedroom in a haze of wayward curls and drooping dressing gown.

"Tea would be lovely John."

"Right, err okay. Sherlock, are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm allowed to take a day off John, it is Christmas." Silly holiday that it was, not that John needed to know he thought that.

"Okay, sorry" John apologised, dipping his head slightly in embarrassment. "Well, I'll make pancakes for breakfast if you fancy some." Sherlock scrunched up his nose.

"I ate last night."

"Oh right, of course, just for me then." John prattled around the kitchen but he could feel the nervous energy rippling off his flatmate, and turned back to the lanky genius. "Something you want to say Sherlock?" Sherlock shook his head nonchalantly and moved to the living room, whereupon he flounced onto the sofa and didn't move for the remainder of the morning, lost in the many rooms of his mind palace.  

Lunchtime came and went, with John reheating leftover Chinese, and still Sherlock waited for his flatmate to make the first move in gift giving. He'd run over all the facts of the case twice in his head, conjured up the crime scene and analysed it from every angle and he was bored, getting nowhere. With an angry exhalation he got up and sat down at the table, adjusting his microscope to peer down at the samples he'd taken last night from the victim. Nothing new their either, he was going to have to go to Bart's and use their equipment.

Twenty minutes later, a rather cheerful looking John accompanied a more sullen Sherlock to St Bartholomew's hospital. By the time they reached the labs John was practically buzzing, and as the entered he at last cried.

"Merry Christmas Sherlock!" At which point Sherlock followed his gaze to the workbench and a brand new high spec microscope with Sherlock's name on it, literally. Engraved into the side was a simple message: To Sherlock Holmes from John Watson.

Sherlock blinked twice. "Thank you John, I've been after a newer model for sometime now." From within his coat he pulled out a small present neatly wrapped and addressed to John. The blonde took it, somewhat surprised and gingerly unwrapped it. A soft cashmere jumper in a sky blue greeted him, and nestled in was a small hand cut piece of card: 'This voucher entitles the bearer to one fridge/freezer of their choice for storage of foods rather than body parts.' A hand written note which made John chuckle and warmth swell in his chest.

"Merry Christmas John." Sherlock smiled.


End file.
